Satin and Tat
by R. Scott
Summary: Ashes to Ashes: He never knows what to say, he can only beat it out of people, yell things that makes spit fly from his mouth, shout so that it hurts his own ears. He can’t tell her what she needs to hear, he doesn’t know what she wants. Gene/Alex


A/N: I found this hard to write, so tell me what you think. Hope you enjoy. :o)

**This story contains strong language. **

* * *

He can barely breathe. He has to bend down and rest on his knees, allow the air to return to his lungs. Standing straight again, he blinks rapidly, seeing spots, feeling sick because he can't let himself feel anything else, he won't allow it. 

His first instinct is to race forward and grab her but he knows one step might tip her over the edge, it might send her spiraling down into the darkness and the thought makes his head hurt. Makes his breathing ever shallower, makes sweat drip from his brow.

The night is freezing, the sky clear and the moon full. The wind is fierce at this height, twenty stories up, London sparkling and roaring below them, like a beast waiting to devour her. She doesn't stare down, just out. Out to the horizon, the wind blowing her hair in wild, loose strands. She's wearing a dress too, red satin, classy number, and it's caught in the wind, rippling around her ankles, her toes poking over the edge. The expression on her face, which is stained with dark make up…it's not real. Her small smile looks as though it's been painted on, just simple, surreal _peace_.

He knows, somehow, that he has never wanted her more. But he is too blind and terrified to care.

"What the bloody hell d'you think you're _doing!?_" he yells, not thinking, his face red, his eyes narrow slits as he stares at the scene before him, sheer panic worming it's way through his veins. He can't move forward, can't take any steps, wills himself not to and the effort is causing him physical pain.

The sound of his voice visibly startles her, and for one horrific moment he thinks she's going to go…but she simply chances a look at him, a hesitant, frightened stare, before turning to face the skyline again. Letting out a choked breath, Gene runs a hand through his hair and it's shaking, he struggles to stay put, desperate to do something,_anything_. He sees it all play out in so many different ways, but each flashing image ends with her body, crumpled and bloody on the streets below…

He's going mad, waiting for her to say something. That eerie expression is still on her face, somewhere between here and insanity, and this barely changes when she finally speaks.

"I'm going home." She yells over the wind, as if it was perfectly obvious. She smiles suddenly as if she has just realised something. "It's…it's so bloody simple!"

He runs his hands over his face now, convinced finally that she's lost it. This is the sort of rare occurrence when he wishes with all his might that Sam was here. Because he'd know what to say, he'd know how to approach her. He could tell her exactly what she needs to hear and just fix it all up nice and proper, like he always did.

But this time, Gene realises he actually _cares _about the outcome, cares too much. He can already feel the bone shattering consequences of her actions and it hasn't even happened yet. He can't stop seeing it, in his head, over and over agin she's falling, falling to the ground, falling away from him and he can't do anything.

He does only what he knows how.

"Drake, get your boney arse down from there _right now!_" he bellows, his throat hurting. "_That's an order_!"

He is infuriated when she simply let's out a mocking laugh.

"An order? An _order!?_ You're not even _real,_ Gene! You can't tell me what to do anymore!" she yells.

Bloody hell. She really is a nutter... most likely drunk too, pissed and loony, never a good combination, and he is livid. With her, for being so _fucking stupid,_ with himself for caring. It was already feeling like his life was crumbling down around him and this was what it had all been leading up to, the final fall, and it was all happening too fast.

"What are you trying to prove, ey?" he shouts at her, hating her more with every word that leaves his mouth. "You think jumpin' off the edge'll make it all _better?_"

"I have to go home…" she says and he barely hears it, rage making his eyes sting. At least he hopes it's rage.

"You_ what?"_

"Don't you understand!?" she almost screams, spinning on her heal to face him. He sees it again, sees her falling and, feeling his stomach lurch, instantly takes a stride forward. They are facing each other now and he could leap forward and grab her, pull her away from the edge. He can't move though, his body numb with cold, with fear.

Her eyes are full of tears and the sight makes him ache. He hates it. He hates what she is doing to him, what she already does to him every second he has to spend with her. He wants to tear out his hair, slam his fist into the wall, he can't take it anymore, he can't _fucking lose her._

"This is what I have to do!" she cries, trying to laugh off her obvious pain, putting her hands to her head. It seems like she's trying to convince herself as well as him, begging to understand and losing the fight with her own mind. He can't do this…he can't just stand here anymore, his head is spinning.

What would it take? Two seconds, maybe more? Just to grab her, pull her away…

"Will you listen to yourself you dozy _cow!_" he yells, desperate, clinging to whatever reality he had left, grasping onto anything he could think of "You're bloody drunk! You're not thinkin' straight!"

"No!" she suddenly screams at him and it feels like a punch in the gut, staring at the pure hatred in her eyes "You can't stop me from going home! I need to see my daughter!"

Oh God…for fuck's sake, he can't do anything, he can't _do anything_…his whole body is shaking and the wind is howling around them he can barely _hear…_

"Oh yeah, I'm sure she'd love findin' her mum lyin' in 'er own blood like a slab of _meat _on the _pavement!" _he cries "That'll _really_ make her day!"

"Stop it!" she sobs, avoiding his deathly stare, her eyes darting in every direction, like she's utterly lost. Which she is…she's lost…he can see it in her eyes.

Before he can do anything, she's turned away from him again, in the position he found her, except now…she's shaking, he can see it, her body heaving with sobs. The sight makes him want to jump himself. He moves forward, each stride quicker than the last until he is stood only a few feet from her.

She could fall, he realises with a sickening lurch, she could slip.

"Drake, for fuck's sake_, don't do this!"_

He can hear the desperation in his voice and he would be disgusted with himself, but it doesn't matter. He'd do anything, he thinks, anything at all right now, right in this second if he could just stop her…

"You're not real…" she says, and her eyes are closed with defiance, her face so grim it's as though she's in pain. "You're not real!"

He doesn't know what to say. He never knows what to say, he can only beat it out of people, yell things that makes spit fly from his mouth, shout so that it hurts his own ears. He can't tell her what she needs to hear, he doesn't know what she wants.

He wishes he did. More than ever.

"_Please_…" he says through gritted teeth, hating the weakness of it, hating her over and over again for too many things "You're…whatever the bloody hell's goin' on up there…you can fix it…you can _fight_ it!"

He grabs her arm without realising.

"_You're better than this!_"

His actions make her jump, and she gasps as his rough skin grips her bear arm. He doesn't even realise what he's done, he could pull her down from the wall right now, get her away, but for some unknown reason he is completely frozen to the spot. He can't let out a breath as she stares at his hand on her arm, stares like she can't believe what she's seeing…

Shaking, she places her free hand over his, as if trying to physically prove to herself that he is in fact real. His grip is tightening, he notices, he could snap her in half, his hand is trembling.

"Gene…" she sobs, griping his hand in equal strength and this outburst is threatening to utterly break him…his throat is becoming sore…he is afraid he won't be able to speak…

He takes in a deep breath which calms him somewhat. He's thankful that he hasn't done anything ridiculously stupid already, like completely break down, thankful that he's finally managing to talk her out of it…

"I need to go home…" she says in a tiny voice, he can hardly hear it over the ferocious wind. Tears are streaming down her face and he's pretty sure she's never looked more bloody beautiful before.

"Listen to me." He says firmly, blocking out anything else he may be feeling and concentrating on talking some sense into this woman. "You might be a domineering, arrogant, stuck up tarty _cow_, but you're a fucking good copper. I know you're not gonna let this beat you…you are _not_ gonna throw your life away just because you've 'ad _enough_."

He takes a deep breath.

"You better toughen up _right now_, Bolly." He says "Because if you don't…"

The last words sound slightly choked and he doesn't know how to finish that sentence. He seems to be getting through though because she's staring down into his eyes with an indescribable awe, her hand suddenly clutching his own, which hasn't loosened it's grip on her arm. He can see her begin to break, he sees her give in and it shocks him when she visibly seems to collapse in on herself, letting out a painful sob as she does so. Her knees buckle, her legs shake-

The heel of her shoe slips over the edge.

He's sees it happen in an instant. If he'd blinked he would have missed it.

"_No!_"

He grips her arm as tight as he can and he can feel her slipping, he has to lunge forward, wrapping himself around her waist and pulling her back with all the strength he has in him, all the strength he has _left…_he closes his eyes and pulls her to him, steps back, clinging to her waist and he feels the solid ground beneath them.

They are left tangled, his arms wrapped around her from behind, and all he can hear is the sound of their desperate breathing being carried away by the wind. He can't look up, simply buries his face in her shoulder, because he's not convinced she's safe yet.

He hears her let out a strange noise, half way between a cry and a laugh, and it snaps him out of this state. Never loosening his grip, he looks up, and notices they are a good few meters away from the edge of the building, safely back down on the roof.

He lets out a breathtaking sigh of relief, laughing slightly, swaying her from side to side.

"Jesus_ fucking _Christ…" he mutters, a sick feeling still in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't loosen his grip on her waist.

He just lets her cry, silently.

* * *

He drains his hip flask faster than he ever has before, he's sure, and slams it down on top of the television when he's through, letting out a long, tired breath. He's already smoked half a pack of cigarettes and is still itching for more, just to have something to do. Otherwise he'll be left staring at her, wrapped in a blanket and sitting up straight on the sofa, her eyes hollow, and he doesn't think he can take it much longer. 

He is slouched in the armchair opposite her, has been for a good hour now, completely shattered, his tie loosened and his feet propped up on the coffee table. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he finds his gaze drawn to her. She's slowly sipping at the mug of coffee he made her, looking exhausted, and he reminds himself once more that he's just saved her life again.

Again. Why doesn't he just give up?

He could, he thinks. He's had enough of her. He could just send her away, suspend her maybe, get her out of his sight. After tonight he's not sure if he can spend another day with her, beating up murderers and cleaning up the scum. The thought used to excite him, please him in a nice, twisted way. Getting the job done, getting it done well, watching her screech and strop at him, he likes that. He likes making her angry.

It's all so bloody simple.

Everything is different now, though. It's starting to change…the world is starting to change around him, he can feel it. He can feel the ground shifting beneath him…

And it's all her fault.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice startles him

"What?"

She's looking at him with a drained expression, sad and pathetic, completely heart wrenching and it makes him hate her even more, if that's at all possible. He shifts in his seat.

She sighs.

"I'm sorry you…I didn't know…I…"

She's struggling for words and he just stares at her solemnly, feeling more tired now than he has all evening.

"Spit it out love." He says in a low quiet voice, and she just smiles slightly as if expecting nothing more from him.

"I'm_ sorry_."

He's not entirely sure exactly what she is apologising for…for being a stupid, pathetic cow, for causing him all this fucking pain. Perhaps she's saying sorry to herself…to that daughter of hers. She means it though. Whatever it is, she _means it._

He simply grunts slightly in acceptance and has another drag on his cigarette, the smoke swimming through his lungs and making him feel slightly elevated. His eyes close of their own accord…

And he sees her falling, her red dress, hears her sob-

His eyes snap open.

She's looking at him, an odd expression on her face.

"Why are you here?" she asks in a quiet voice.

He doesn't really know what to say to her.

"You're a flight risk, Bolls." He decides on, sighing and rubbing his eyes, trying to remain awake. "Don't fancy walkin' up tomorrow to find all the paperwork on me desk."

She smiles and this pleases him, but it quickly vanishes from her face.

"I'm not…" she says, fumbling over her words again. "I mean, I won't-"

"I know" He says, putting her out of her misery. "Just…better to be safe than sorry, ey?"

She sighs, running her hands over her face, her dark makeup smudged, her hair limp. She hasn't changed out of that dress…she looks the very definition of broken. Pathetic really, he tells himself to think.

She stands up.

"Where're you goin'?" he asks too quickly.

"Bathroom." She says in a deliberate reassuring tone, and it irritates him. He takes another swig of liquor and turns away from her as she leaves the room, a look of disgust on his face. Because that's what he is, completely disgusted with himself.

Why is he still _here_?

He doesn't want to answer it, because the truth disgusts him even more. But he knows that he can't leave…he can't leave her on her own, not tonight. She might be able to hold her own most of the time, but she was still human. A _woman_. Just bloody wonderful.

Maybe he wouldn't have to get rid of her…maybe she wouldn't be able to face work anyway. Completely unstable most days,that one, let alone the day after she's tried to top herself.

He shudders and takes a long drag from his cigarette, wishing it would last for the rest of his sorry old life.

It takes a long moment after that before he finally hears her sobs coming from the bathroom. They sound far away, the echo making them all the more saddening. He sits there for a moment, just listening to it. She's trying to stifle them…choking or sniffing every now and then. He stares long and hard at the wall, his vision slightly blurred through tiredness, the sound of her muffled wails doing strange things to him.

Pathetic, he tries to think again. Just bloody pathetic.

He wonders briefly if he'll ever be able to leave now.

He wonders if he even _wants_ to.

Slowly, and with effort, he stands up, swaying slightly because he is so bloody shattered. Running a hand through his hair, he sees that she has left the bathroom door ajar, and he gently pushes it open. He is met with the sight of her on the floor, back propped up against the bath tub, the blanket a heap beside her. Her shoulders gently move up and down, and she wipes her eyes with a defiant hand.

He shouldn't want to kiss her.

He should call an ambulance, get her seen to. The thought had occurred to him as he had walked her back here, but he assumed she'd march through, like she always did, because she's stronger than all that, she's better.

But when she looks up at him with a hopeless expression on her face, he wonders how he could have thought that. He wonders how the bloody hell she'll cope now. How _he_ will.

He doesn't say anything, partly because, like always, he doesn't know what to say. Partly because he is simply just too tired. He slumps down beside her, letting out an exhausted sigh, taking one last drag from his cigarette, then turning to face her.

She raises her eyebrows, as if to suggest even _she_ doesn't know why she's crying, even when it's blindingly obvious.

He puts his arm around her, pulling her close to him, feeling strangely content. She holds him with an intensity that she seems unaware of, and although her sobs have slowed, she is still shaking slightly.

"Pull yourself together." He mutters, stubbing out his cigarette on the cold floor, trying to focus on that act rather than the woman in his arms.

He feels her laugh slightly, bitterly, and she presses up against him as close as she can get, hiding her face, her tears.

"Listen up, Bolly," he says, feeling slightly out of his depth. "'Cause your about to 'ear somthin' you aren't ever gonna hear again."

He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh.

"You scared the bloody _shit_ out of me back there."

She shifts slightly in his arms, and they are facing each other. She stares at him He is looking into her eyes again. Falling into them. He feels like he's been in this agonizing position a million times over, every time the same, every feeling the same and it just gets worse and worse, it seems.

There's only so many times he can do the right thing.

And he knows he has to, now.

It doesn't help that she's gazing at him, painfully, tearfully, and she places her hand on his jaw. He holds it there.

The irony is almost killing him. How many times has he wanted this from her? He could take it…take her right now, right this second, and when he was through she wouldn't even know what year it was.

He's put a lot of thought into it.

"You know what your problem is, love," he says quietly, his voice gruff, keeping his gaze fixed on hers.

"You don't know what you want."

She stares at him for a long moment, and it makes him feel slightly uncomfortable. The distance between them is nothing. Just their breathing mingling together, that unbearable heat between them, it's enough to make him lean in a little closer.

_There's only so many times he can do the right thing._

As he thinks it again, the words sound hollow, sick and wrong, he's crossing too many boundaries now. But it's hard not to. She hasn't made any attempt to move away, hasn't moved her hand where it rests on his jaw, and it would be so easy, he thinks, too easy to just make her his.

"Right now," she whispers, sending a shudder through him. She is swallowing down her pain, he can see it, and he doesn't think he has ever felt this much before, ever felt like running or falling or smoking or fucking all at once. She was literally driving him insane.

She places a thumb over his lip.

"Right now…I know exactly what I want."

He practically falls into the kiss. It's soft, lazy, and she needs it, he realises, she needs this from him, right now. He feels more than happy to oblige. This isn't right, he knows, but he finds it hard to care.

As he kisses her harder, he sees her in his head, falling, falling into the darkness below. That red dress, the dress he just wants to rip off, rip to shreds, fluttering in the wind. He pulls away from her so that he can look at her properly.

"What?" she says, her voice wavering. Her hands are knotted in his hair and his are on her waist, they are tangled together on the floor.

His breathing is heavy as he stares at her, a battle raging within him, a battle he somehow knows he will lose.

"I…" he begins, closing his eyes in frustration for a moment before glaring at her. Because what the bloody hell was he meant to say?

Nothing.

His grip on her waist tightens considerably as he kisses her with a rage-induced passion, and he can see spots, sees everything wrong with the country, with the world, everything wrong with what he is doing.

His mind's eye sees her falling again, and his kiss anchors her down. Keeps her solid and real, in the here and now, not lost to the wind and darkness.

This bloody dress. He doesn't know weather to love it or hate it.

It doesn't matter because it is soon crumpled on the floor.


End file.
